by Scott Blade
She said, “Damn. He didn’t go out with a radio. He would have never gone out into the park without a radio. No way. He was reckless, but not stupid. He must have quit.”
Widow shrugged.
She walked back into the room and out into the living room, looked around again. Then she returned holding the empty flask.
She held it up, and said, “Looks like you’re telling the truth, Jack.”
The way she held the flask, Widow could see Gordon’s name inscribed on the side. Then she turned it upside down and shook it with the cap off. Nothing came out.
“That idiot!” she exclaimed.
Widow stayed quiet.
Just then the CB crackled to life.
Tate’s voice said, “Mr. Widow? Come in?”
He looked at the woman, and said, “That’s Tate. We already spoke.”
He picked up the receiver again and answered, “Tate, I’m here with your fire watch.”
“Molly?”
She stepped closer to the radio and said, “It’s me. Molly DeGorne.”
“Good. DeGorne, listen up. I have bad news.”
She braced herself.
Tate said, “Ellis had a heart attack.”
“Oh no!”
“Don’t worry. He seems okay. He’s in the hospital. Obviously, that means that we are short a fire watch. And it’s sector two twenty-one.”
Widow looked at DeGorne. He had no idea what two twenty-one was. But the look on her face told him that maybe it was either an important sector or a dangerous one or both.
Molly stepped forward, put her hand on Widow’s, and took the receiver. He didn’t fight her.
She clicked the button, and said, “I can take it. I guess.”
Tate came back on, and said, “No. That won’t be necessary. We got a temporary replacement.”
DeGorne asked, “Who?”
“Mr. Widow.”
She looked at him.
She said, “Tom, who is this guy?” Then she lowered the receiver and mouthed the word, sorry.
Widow shrugged.
“Molly, we’re in a bind here. We need someone to watch two twenty-one. It will take a week or two to get someone vetted.”
Silence fell between them.
“You got any better ideas?” Tate came back over the radio.
“What about Jerry?”
“Corman is retired. You know that. He couldn’t hike through that terrain and you know it.”
“What makes this guy qualified?”
The CB squawked and Tate came back over, sounding annoyed. He said, “Molly, this isn’t a debate. I checked him out. He’s got a service record that speaks to his qualifications. Now, let me speak to Widow for a minute.”
DeGorne handed him the receiver like it was a hot potato. She smiled and left the room, left the ranger hut.
Tate asked, “Widow?”
“Yeah,”
“My friend said that he could only get part of your record. Said the rest of it was redacted. I gather that you must have been some kind of black ops guy.”
Widow stayed quiet.
“He did tell me that you looked like a do-gooder. But I have my concerns.”
What are you getting at? Widow thought.
“A lot of guys get PST when they come back,” he said and paused a long beat.
He said, “Do I need to spell it out for you?”
“You wonder if I got Post Traumatic?”
“It happens. Especially to SEALs.”
“No, it doesn’t happen to SEALs. Not any more than anyone else. In fact, I’d guess that it happens a lot less to SEALs. These guys are the best of the best. The number one qualifier to becoming a SEAL, other than love of country, is mental fortitude. They can train us to be able to do the rest. But you gotta come with strong mental facilities already.”
Tate said nothing.
“Are you worried about me getting out there and going crazy? What, like Rambo?”
“It’s a serious thing, Widow. We’ve had our share of crazies living out there in the park.”
Widow stayed quiet.
“Anyway, my guy in the DoN said you were the real deal. Considering the bind that I’m in, I don’t see any other choice.”
“You don’t have to worry. I’m sure I can handle it.”
“So you’ll be in sector two twenty-one, which is not so bad. Molly has it worse. A harder terrain. We’ve had fires there before. Some of the areas are still burned up.”
“What’s so tough about it? The terrain?”
“That’s part of it. So, I have to ask you a dumb question. Do you have any climbing experience?”
“Of course. SEAL stands for Sea, Air, Land.”
“I figured. How good is it?”
“Good enough. I’m not an expert or anything.”
“That’ll be fine. DeGorne will be the closest neighbor you have. She can help you with any questions. You may not even need to worry about too much.”
“Okay.”
“Everything good? Got it?”
“I got it.”
“Okay. You’ll ride in DeGorne. Remember she can show you the rest. It’s not hard. There are daily duties you’ll have to perform, easy enough. The rest of the time, feel free to explore and be safe.”
“Sounds good. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“One more thing. I’ll need to get your bank information so we can direct deposit your money.”
“Money?”
“It’s a job, Widow. You want to get paid, right?”
“Sorry, I didn’t even think about it.”
He hadn’t gotten paid for work in ages.
“You do want to get paid?” he repeated.
“Sure.”
“Good. Go on then. You got a ride to catch.”
“You said that the one named Molly will help me?”
“Right.”
“Okay then. Ten-four,” and Widow let go of the receiver, placed it down on top of the radio and memorized the channel, in case he needed to know it.
He left the office and walked out of the station.
CHAPTER 17
THE TIME WAS SEVEN A.M.
DeGorne waited outside of the ranger hut in the Ford Bronco that Widow had seen her driving up in. The truck was old, well-kept, and well-maintained. It had clear headlight covers, no dirt or grime, except for the loose dirt that she’d acquired from the drive up.
She sat close to the steering wheel. Fingers over the wheel. Elbows bent. The bottoms of her forearms rested neatly up against the steering. The Bronco’s front windows were both rolled down. There were dual roll bars spiking up and out of the middle rear.
DeGorne glanced forward for a moment and then turned her head back to Widow, but kept her body where it was, facing the front. She looked right at him.
“You coming?”
He smiled and said, “Let’s go.”
“Hop in.”
He glanced at the road ahead, an act of pure instinct, and not at all on purpose. Then he turned, and gripped the handle, pressed the button and pulled the door open.
Before he slid in, he gazed over the back bench. He saw a duffle bag and a backpack, both packed full.
Widow got comfortable and buckled his seatbelt. He looked around. He liked the interior. He didn’t have to duck his head. He didn’t get that feeling of the ceiling being right on top of him.
They drove off. DeGorne accelerated hard like she was in a hurry. With the early morning wildlife sounds, the hard wind, the rustling trees, and the tires bouncing over the terrain as the dirt track got narrower and rougher, they had to raise their voices like they were talking over helicopter rotor blades.
“Where we headed exactly?” Widow asked.
“Our towers are close together. We’re headed north and veering west.”
“They’re close together?”
“Ten miles apart.”
“That’s close together?”
“Out here it is.”
They continued on for a long period with short bursts of conversation, of small talk. Getting to know each other. She had asked him where he was from. What his name was, again. What he was doing walking along the side of the road. And where he was headed.
He said, “My name is Jack Widow. I’m from Mississippi, originally. And I’m headed nowhere.”
She looked over at him, said nothing.
“Right now, I’m headed to tower two twenty-one. With you, I guess.”
She asked, “And what were you doing out on the road?”
“Walking.”
“I know that, Jack Widow. I mean why?”
“That’s how I travel—sometimes.”
“I mean why walking? No car?”
“No, ma’am. No vehicle.”
She paused a beat, slowed the Bronco. There was a dip, then another, and some rugged patch of track. She drove it like she knew it was there.
“You drive this a lot?”
“Every year.”
“How far we gotta go this way?”
“First we drive this for about two hours. Then we hump another six miles.”
“Six miles? Humping through the wilderness?”
Just the two of us? he thought.
“Six miles for me. Eight for you.”
“Eight?”
“We don’t walk together. You go one way. And I go the other.”
Widow watched ahead. He saw a deep gulch, checkered with erratic rock formations, surrounded by trees. Everything was surrounded by trees.
DeGorne said, “I’m Molly Lee. By the way.”
“Lee? I thought it was DeGorne?”
She nodded, fast, and said, “Yes. DeGorne, I meant. Sorry. It’s an old habit.”
He looked at her ring finger.
“You married?”
She turned pale, stared straight ahead for several seconds. Then she said, “I was.”
“Ah. Sorry to hear that. You mind if I ask? Does it have something to do with that eye?”
She looked into the rearview, pushed her shades all the way back, covering her eyes.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s none of my business.”
“It’s okay. We’re gonna be neighbors. We’ll talk a lot. So, you married?”
“Me? No, ma’am.”
“You military or something? What’s with all the ‘No, ma’ams’?”
“I was. Once upon a time.”
“What did you do in the military?”
At that point Widow didn’t see any point in lying to her. For all he knew he’d be out there with only her to talk to for a week, maybe more. He didn’t want to tell her the whole truth, that he was an undercover cop. So, he said, “I was NCIS.”
She fell silent. Her jaw didn’t drop, not literally, but it looked like it was going to.
She automatically looked in the rearview again, looked at her duffle bag.
“You’re like a federal agent?”
“Was. A long time ago.”
“But not now?”
“No. Now I’m nobody.”
She was quiet another mile. Widow stared out the window. He saw a clearing and a low valley, covered in green bushes and grass. In it he saw horses running free. Dozens of them. They had thick manes and looked huge. From that distance, they blended together in shades of brown and black and white.
“Horses,” he said.
DeGorne leaned to the right, stared out over the dash.
“Wild horses.”
“You have them out here?”
“Sure. This is the west.”
“I never saw wild horses before.”
“They are something.”
They were quiet. Widow watched the running horses. DeGorne saw he was looking, and stopped the car, switched off the engine.
She said, “Listen.”
Widow listened. He could hear their hooves stomping and clomping down on the hard ground.
They stayed there for a long moment. Then she fired the engine back up and moved on.
DeGorne said, “So, what is a cowboy like you doing this far from home?”
“Home?”
“Yeah, where are you from?”
“Mississippi. Originally.”
“Why so far from there?”
Widow said, “Mississippi’s not home though. It’s just where I was born. And I never met a cowboy there. That’s more Texas. Or Montana.”
“Where is it then?”
“Mississippi? It’s in the Deep South. Between Alabama and Louisiana.”
She glanced over at him. Her sunglasses slipped down again and he saw those avocado eyes peering back at him from above the rim. The glassiness in her eyes had dried away. A gust of wind beat across her face, whipping thin strands of loose bangs down on her forehead.
He said, “Or it’s between Tennessee and the Gulf of Mexico, all depending on your perspective. I suppose.”
With the glassiness gone, her cheeks had returned to their normal color and she seemed like a different woman, like whatever it was that had been weighing on her had suddenly become null and void, or at least forgotten.
For the first time, she smiled at him.
“I know where Mississippi is. I meant where is your home?”
She looked back at the track ahead again. She slowed down because they were coming up on a hill and a curve. She braked, and the Bronco engine continued to hum, as it dipped over and took the curve. Good and steady.
“My home is right here,” Widow said, placing his right hand on his chest.
She glanced over at him, one more time, and then back at the road.
“What?”
“This is my home.”
He patted his chest.
“Very funny. If you don’t wanna tell me. That’s fine.”
“What I mean is my body is my home. Where ever I am is where I live.”
She kept facing forward, staring ahead, and staying quiet for another whisking mile. Then she asked, “So, you’re homeless?”
“Nope. If I was homeless then I would be dead.”
“Come again?”
“I would be body-less. If my body is my only home.”
She looked over at him.
Those avocado eyes again.
“You’re weird, Jack Widow.”
“Aren’t all the good ones? And just call me Widow. No one calls me Jack.”
“Okay, Widow. Guess I’m weird too.”
She smiled, like he expected, and continued driving.
They drove on for another forty-five minutes. And then another hour. The ride was slow going because it was all dirt roads and off-road tracks. She handled the Bronco like a champion bull rider, and Widow realized she was the cowboy here, not him.
The roads wound around and hugged and threaded through the park. Widow stared out the window at the passing trees and sunlit grass. Occasionally, he saw herds of horses, flocks of birds, once a murder of crows, and a distant pack of wolves, running up the side of the mountain. They were still far away, but they looked huge.
“The gray wolves here, are they endangered?”
“No, but they are protected.”
“Is there an issue of hunters killing them?”
“Yes. I call them poachers. But really it’s trophy hunting. They come into the park and kill them. They take them to be stuffed like trophies. It’s sick.”
Widow nodded.
DeGorne turned on a CB radio attached below the car stereo. She thumbed the knobs. Static filled the interior.
“You looking for something?”
“Just checking for any chatter. Sometimes you can pick up one of the other towers.”
She turned the dial to the station and sat back. They listened, but there was nothing but static.
She said, “So you were a fire watch before?”
“Yes. Long time ago. I worked as a relief.”
“Good. Then you should be right at home.”
“Maybe.”
“If you need an
y help. Just call me on the CB or a walkie.”
Widow nodded.
AFTER TWO HOURS RIGHT ON THE NOSE, DeGorne pulled into a small clearing where there was a tall, metal carport. They saw two vehicles already parked underneath it. Both were four-by-four trucks. Both were covered with tarps.
“This is the end of the line. We gotta walk from here.”
“If we split up here, then how do I know where to go?”
“I have a map. You can take it,” she said, and leaned over to Widow, one hand on the wheel. Her breasts angled and curved, pushing the limits of the demarcation of her top. No bra. That was obvious. Although, she had been dressed somewhat conservatively, in plain hiking attire, some things weren’t hidden away so easily.
Widow caught himself leering. Her long hair fell forward across her back and shoulder, and brushed across his arm.
She said, “Sorry.”
She reached out with her hand and popped the button on the glove box and jerked it open. She sat back behind the wheel and righted herself.
“Look in there.”
“What am I looking for?”
“A map. You can take it. I know the way.”
Widow reached into the glove box and searched for the map. He found it easy enough. It was folded up, smaller than a road map. He started to pull it out, but right there underneath was something else.
He found a revolver, fully loaded.
CHAPTER 18
THE REVOLVER WAS MANUFACTURED by a German company called Weihrauch. Once Widow had known a German Special Forces crew. He worked with them in a co-op mission in Afghanistan. He got to be good friends with a guy named Jürgen, who liked to be called Eric. He wasn’t sure why.
Eric was also a cop of sorts for the German military. At the time, he and his guys were very helpful to the NCIS in busting up a gunrunning highway system made up of mostly random Russian trucks, which were used to navigate through various countries until they passed through Ukraine and then into Russia, where they would lose the shipments they carried across Asia into various places.
Back in 2005, when most of the US was focused on Iraq, the USN was having many problems in Afghanistan. Everyone knew how the Taliban was getting AKs, no surprise there. Most of them were left over from the Russians, but now they also had other guns as well. The Navy had seen newer weapons showing up. Some German, which explained Jürgen’s department’s interest in the whole affair.
